Scott LeRette's Blog, page 2
July 27, 2013
A Few Days To Live...
What's a few days to you?
What if that's all you had left, a few days?
Does it make a difference knowing how long your personal life-clock has on it?
Would you ever want to know how many days are still to come?
What is "time" to you?
Why does it matter?
I watched Austin carry on a conversation recently at a local Target store and it made me think of this string of questions. As I watched, I learned, as always. He really doesn't care. Oh, but that's all in a very good way. He doesn't care in that he's not worrying about what comes next. He lives in the moment of "every" moment. And in those moments he tries to make them the best moment he could ever have, every time.
The conversation went something like this- "Are you African-American? Why yes, I am sweetie. Oh my gosh, that is so cool. Why, that is cool isn't it! The color of you is so pretty. I wish I could look like you, so chocolaty and smooth! You are so pretty. Serious giggles from the pretty lady with which he bantered. I know I can never be the same beautiful color as you but I sure wish I could have those things you have. What, my hair? Yeah, those are so cool. Those are corn-rows. You could have em too if you really wanted them. Daaad! You gotta let me get those. Those are the bomb. You have the most adorable young man I have ever met. You should be very proud of him.
This was just one of countless conversations I am drawn into for being a part of my eldest sons world. Teresa has had this same experience while at Sam's a few weeks ago. He lives each and every moment like he was drawing his last breath.
After we left the store I continued thinking about the pretty lady and Austin carrying on like two long-lost friends. Both smiles a mile wide and laughter you could hear throughout the store. They didn't care, they both cackled like they ruled the roost- I thought I saw tears come to her eyes.
As we drove home my thoughts shifted to the time I spend with my boys and my wife. I thought of time in general. And then I thought of how much time I had with Austin and Logan knowing we would be somewhat of an empty nest in two short years.
And then I took it a step further... How much time do I have on this spinning ball we call earth.
Something kept gnawing at the back of my mind. When I got home I went straight to the Mac. Here is what I found:
The average life expectancy in the United States (According to Wiki/CIA/WHO and the UN), is 79 years. Male- 76 and Female 81 and we rank 33th in the world.
What this means is that I have currently lived about 17,520 days, or 63% lived, leaving me with about 10,220 days or 37% of my life left. Wooah. I read these numbers and calculated these percentages and when I was done I was taken aback. I have already, according to statistics, lived about two-thirds of my life. Even as I write this I am still a little stunned by my calculations. Am I really that far along on my life journey? Have I lived it like I would have wanted and how I should have?
I have a pretty good idea and am confident to where I am going near the end, but what about now?
I remember last week I spent the better part of a couple of days worrying and complaining about my sore back, my unsold (not even on the market yet), house and numerous other trivial things. I am always a half-full kinda guy... but I keep so many of these "little"things tucked away and they do "gnaw" at me.
And then I thought of my silly son and his desire to be a goofy pretty-skinned black boy with corn-rows. Austin knows how to live right.
And then just last night he proved it again.
In-line to see Monsters University he was having a field-day... It was a sold-out show. There were people everywhere. Austin was in heaven. He couldn't say hello to enough people. And then he spotted a group off to the side. Hey, Betty, (name changed to protect the innocent)... Hi, she says. She didn't even look in his direction and she looked annoyed to even be answering him. I'd seen this interaction happen all too many times. How's it going, he continued? She didn't even look towards him (but I saw her look of disdain and annoyance). All her friends looked to Auz, as did I. Well, I'm sure you're doin awesome so I hope you enjoy the movie, it's gunna be great!" At this her friends erupted into laughter. I could barely contain a smile.
Austin was not being rude, nor was he trying to be mean. What he showed me was how he responds to times that would make me or you possibly uncomfortable. Instead of letting a person get him down, he carried-on- as he does every day.
He showed me with these two examples what it means to live every day. I try to be more like him in all that I do. It doesn't always work. It's so hard to be full of so much positive energy all the time.
And looking and thinking about how much time we have on earth, it makes me think that maybe Austin, living each day to the fullest, knows something maybe I do not.
So, of the 37% of my life (maybe) I have to live, I am going to try and live more like Austin. The simple things in Austin's life are what's important!!!
We are alive for the blink of an eye.
I don't wanna be like Mike... I wanna be like Auz, but I don't want the corn-rows.
I am blessed to have Austin and Logan in my life. It is an honor and privilege, albeit short, so I too will carry on and stay the course!
What if that's all you had left, a few days?
Does it make a difference knowing how long your personal life-clock has on it?
Would you ever want to know how many days are still to come?
What is "time" to you?
Why does it matter?
I watched Austin carry on a conversation recently at a local Target store and it made me think of this string of questions. As I watched, I learned, as always. He really doesn't care. Oh, but that's all in a very good way. He doesn't care in that he's not worrying about what comes next. He lives in the moment of "every" moment. And in those moments he tries to make them the best moment he could ever have, every time.
The conversation went something like this- "Are you African-American? Why yes, I am sweetie. Oh my gosh, that is so cool. Why, that is cool isn't it! The color of you is so pretty. I wish I could look like you, so chocolaty and smooth! You are so pretty. Serious giggles from the pretty lady with which he bantered. I know I can never be the same beautiful color as you but I sure wish I could have those things you have. What, my hair? Yeah, those are so cool. Those are corn-rows. You could have em too if you really wanted them. Daaad! You gotta let me get those. Those are the bomb. You have the most adorable young man I have ever met. You should be very proud of him.
This was just one of countless conversations I am drawn into for being a part of my eldest sons world. Teresa has had this same experience while at Sam's a few weeks ago. He lives each and every moment like he was drawing his last breath.
After we left the store I continued thinking about the pretty lady and Austin carrying on like two long-lost friends. Both smiles a mile wide and laughter you could hear throughout the store. They didn't care, they both cackled like they ruled the roost- I thought I saw tears come to her eyes.
As we drove home my thoughts shifted to the time I spend with my boys and my wife. I thought of time in general. And then I thought of how much time I had with Austin and Logan knowing we would be somewhat of an empty nest in two short years.
And then I took it a step further... How much time do I have on this spinning ball we call earth.
Something kept gnawing at the back of my mind. When I got home I went straight to the Mac. Here is what I found:
The average life expectancy in the United States (According to Wiki/CIA/WHO and the UN), is 79 years. Male- 76 and Female 81 and we rank 33th in the world.
What this means is that I have currently lived about 17,520 days, or 63% lived, leaving me with about 10,220 days or 37% of my life left. Wooah. I read these numbers and calculated these percentages and when I was done I was taken aback. I have already, according to statistics, lived about two-thirds of my life. Even as I write this I am still a little stunned by my calculations. Am I really that far along on my life journey? Have I lived it like I would have wanted and how I should have?
I have a pretty good idea and am confident to where I am going near the end, but what about now?
I remember last week I spent the better part of a couple of days worrying and complaining about my sore back, my unsold (not even on the market yet), house and numerous other trivial things. I am always a half-full kinda guy... but I keep so many of these "little"things tucked away and they do "gnaw" at me.
And then I thought of my silly son and his desire to be a goofy pretty-skinned black boy with corn-rows. Austin knows how to live right.
And then just last night he proved it again.
In-line to see Monsters University he was having a field-day... It was a sold-out show. There were people everywhere. Austin was in heaven. He couldn't say hello to enough people. And then he spotted a group off to the side. Hey, Betty, (name changed to protect the innocent)... Hi, she says. She didn't even look in his direction and she looked annoyed to even be answering him. I'd seen this interaction happen all too many times. How's it going, he continued? She didn't even look towards him (but I saw her look of disdain and annoyance). All her friends looked to Auz, as did I. Well, I'm sure you're doin awesome so I hope you enjoy the movie, it's gunna be great!" At this her friends erupted into laughter. I could barely contain a smile.
Austin was not being rude, nor was he trying to be mean. What he showed me was how he responds to times that would make me or you possibly uncomfortable. Instead of letting a person get him down, he carried-on- as he does every day.
He showed me with these two examples what it means to live every day. I try to be more like him in all that I do. It doesn't always work. It's so hard to be full of so much positive energy all the time.
And looking and thinking about how much time we have on earth, it makes me think that maybe Austin, living each day to the fullest, knows something maybe I do not.
So, of the 37% of my life (maybe) I have to live, I am going to try and live more like Austin. The simple things in Austin's life are what's important!!!
We are alive for the blink of an eye.
I don't wanna be like Mike... I wanna be like Auz, but I don't want the corn-rows.
I am blessed to have Austin and Logan in my life. It is an honor and privilege, albeit short, so I too will carry on and stay the course!
July 14, 2013
One of the coolest things I have EVER seen!
This is one of the most amazing things I have had the pleasure of experiencing. It touched me beyond measure, profound. Please watch to the end... it's not that long.
To the Timme brothers, from the deepest part of my heart- Thank You!!!
To the Timme brothers, from the deepest part of my heart- Thank You!!!
June 26, 2013
Not All Pain is Gain: On Learning to Copeby Ellen Painter...
Not All Pain is Gain: On Learning to Cope
by Ellen Painter Dollar
Our culture has a funny way of understanding pain. “Pain is gain,” we like to say. And it can be gain. The sore muscles and blistered feet from running miles every day are worth the thrill of crossing the finish line at your first marathon. The searing, tearing pain of childbirth leads to a warm bundle of impossibly tiny toes and rosebud lips and staggered breath that inspires love at first sight. Intellectually, we understand that the pain of a deep gash or scalding burn or broken bone is fundamentally good, because it tells us that something is wrong, that our vulnerable body needs help and protection.
If pain is gain, we think, then certainly there must be something good in all pain, right? So we offer up clichés to those in pain. We tell them that “everything happens for a reason” and “God won’t give you more than you can handle.” And then, being a culture of optimists, a people absolutely dedicated to the notion that through hard work and good decisions, you can fix anything, we expect people in pain to figure it out. When someone tells us they have chronic pain, we suggest diets and supplements and yoga and antidepressants and a good attitude.
But not all pain is gain. Pain is not always fixable. This is the truth. But it is not a hopeless truth.
Like Austin, I have osteogenesis imperfecta (OI)—a genetic collagen disorder that causes fragile bones and other connective tissue problems, such as scoliosis, muscle weakness, and skeletal deformities. Before my 11th birthday, I had about three dozen fractures, mostly of the legs, along with about a dozen surgeries to replace metal rods that helped stabilize and straighten my leg bones. Today, at 45, I haven’t had a fracture in more than 30 years (fracture rates typically go down after puberty, when the bones no longer contend with the stress of rapid growth).
For many of those 30 years, I lived in a healthy denial of my condition. It was still obvious to me and even to casual observers that my body was compromised. My spine is crooked and one leg is longer than the other, so I walk with an awkward swaying limp. I haven't ever been able to carry heavy loads, run, or walk long distances without pain. But from my teen years through my late 30s, I could go through most days without giving much thought to having OI. I could hike on the weekends with my husband, keep house and cook meals, walk to the drug store with a baby or two in a stroller—and rarely have to accommodate my bone disorder into my typical stay-at-home-mom routine.
That all changed when I was pregnant with my third baby, and tore some cartilage in my knee. I eventually had it surgically repaired, but in the seven years since, I have developed severe arthritis in both knees.
This pain is not gain. This pain means that I struggle to keep up with my family on outings, even with the support of a walking stick (I refuse to call it a “cane”!). This pain means that I hobble, hunched over, like someone twice my age when I take my first few steps out of bed in the morning. This pain doesn’t leave me alone even at night; changing position in bed can lead to shooting pain that wakes me up.
When it comes to remedies for arthritis pain, I have tried them all. I swim and do yoga. I have tried acupuncture, dietary changes and supplements, and homeopathic concoctions. I have had various types of injections. Most of these remedies have proved useless.
I have found two treatments that really help: Frequent, intense application of heat (via heating pads, very hot baths, and time spent outdoors in direct sunlight) and opioid medications. Neither remedy banishes my pain entirely, but together, they allow me to keep my house relatively clean and in order, prepare simple meals, and do things with my kids. (Knee replacements are a possibility long-term, but will be more complicated for me than for the usual arthritis patient. My orthopedist and I are agreed that, with three dependent kids still at home, I am not a good candidate for such drastic surgery right now.)
My pain is not gain. My pain is a cold, hard fact, the source of much frustration and even shame. I am, after all, dependent on medications that are the target of suspicion and fear, because of a prevalent pseudoscientific mindset that considers “natural” (unregulated and often untested) remedies as automatically safer and better than “unnatural” remedies produced and sold by Big Pharma, and because of a well-meaning but often misinformed media frenzy around prescription drug abuse. And my children, while of course they love me, don’t always understand my limitations. They roll their eyes when I say I’m heading upstairs to take yet another hot bath. “Mom!” they say. “I think you’re already clean enough!” They whine when I can’t do what they want me to do because I need to sit down and give my knees a break.
Our culture loves stories of people who triumph over pain and adversity. I do not triumph. I take lots of breaks. I complain. I wish I could do more than I can. I get angry when I’ve taken a pill and taken a hot bath and sat out in the sun and still one of my knees is screaming. I get angry because I know there is nothing else to do.
There is nothing else to do, that is, except the most important thing: Cope. I do not triumph, but I do cope. I cope pretty darn well. And I wonder if, in our culture that so loves stories of triumph and strives so mightily to fix whatever is wrong with us, glomming onto the latest technologies or natural remedies or self-help plans or diets or experts that populate the best-seller lists, we have forgotten the value of coping.
Coping is about continuing to put one foot in front of the other, admitting that some things are hard and frustrating and unfixable while giving thanks for other things that are good and inspiring and helpful. Coping is doing what we can while acknowledging all we can’t.
Theologian Stanley Hauerwas, in his book God, Medicine, and Suffering, quotes Nicholas Wolsterstorff, author of Lament for a Son—a memoir of losing his grown son in a mountain climbing accident and a meditation on parental grief. Wolsterstorff says, “I know now about helplessness—of what to do when there is nothing to do. I have learned coping. We live in a time and place where, over and over, when confronted with something unpleasant we pursue not coping but overcoming. Often we succeed. Most of humanity has not enjoyed and does not enjoy such luxury.”
Our culture doesn’t like helplessness. We are uncomfortable with pain and grief. So we pull out our clichés about everything happening for a reason and pain being gain. Mere weeks after the Boston marathon bombing, we pick up a People magazine with smiling amputees on the cover. We admire them for overcoming their trials with grit and determination, failing to acknowledge that they likely have days and weeks and years of hard coping ahead of them, of getting out of bed and going to work and caring for families under the weight of pain and grief and horrific memories.
Austin has OI as I do, and his dad Scott tells me that Austin lives with chronic pain as well. I have never met Austin. But if I could say one thing to him and to other kids living with challenges, such as OI or autism or other conditions affecting body and mind, I would say this:
You have had to deal with a lot of stuff in your young life, and you have borne that stuff with grace and strength. But I know—and I think you know too—that you are not a superhero. You are human. And stuff hurts. Sometimes it hurts a lot. When stuff hurts, whether it’s your body or your heart that is bruised, you don’t have to overcome the hurt. You don’t have to triumph over it. You don’t have to find a reason for it. You don’t have to learn a lesson from it (although once in a while, you will). You don’t always have to be brave and strong. You don’t have to inspire other people.
All you have to do is cope. Get up each and every day, decide what you really want and need to do, and then figure out how to do it. Figure out what eases the struggle a little bit, whether it’s finding meds or exercises or foods that really help, getting lost in a good book or a favorite video game, or spending time alone or time with other people. Admit when you’re hurt, exhausted, or frustrated, and ask for help—or just a listening ear. Push yourself to stretch beyond your limits, but only if you’re pushing in response to a deep yearning that’s inside yourself, not to impress others or fulfill their notion that you are some kind of symbol of how to overcome adversity. You are not a symbol. You are a person. And the people who really love and need you, they love and need you, the person you really are, with all of your gifts and limits and strengths and weaknesses.
It took me a long time to figure this out. I have spent far too much time comparing myself to other women my age, with their toned muscles and triathlon finishes and ability to come home from work to create a lovely homecooked meal and then go for a run and then take the dog for a walk, all without hurting. I have spent far too much time comparing myself to other mothers, who can ride bikes with their kids and keep up with them on strolls through town and carry them when they are exhausted. I am not happy about being a 45-year-old mom who has severe arthritis. But happy about it or not, that’s who I am. I am the best mom for my kids, the best wife for my husband, the best friend for my friends simply because I am theirs.
And I am coping. Not triumphing. Not overcoming. Just coping. Which is a lot, and really all any of us need to do.
Ellen Painter Dollar is a writer, blogger, and author of No Easy Choice: A Story of Disability, Parenthood, and Faith in an Age of Advanced Reproduction (Westminster John Knox 2012). Learn more about her and follow her writing at http://ellenpainterdollar.com.
I thank Ellen for sharing with us. It is still hard for me sometimes to appreciate and understand how my wife and son hurt like they do. Not just once and a while, but every day. Thank you and God bless.
by Ellen Painter Dollar
Our culture has a funny way of understanding pain. “Pain is gain,” we like to say. And it can be gain. The sore muscles and blistered feet from running miles every day are worth the thrill of crossing the finish line at your first marathon. The searing, tearing pain of childbirth leads to a warm bundle of impossibly tiny toes and rosebud lips and staggered breath that inspires love at first sight. Intellectually, we understand that the pain of a deep gash or scalding burn or broken bone is fundamentally good, because it tells us that something is wrong, that our vulnerable body needs help and protection.
If pain is gain, we think, then certainly there must be something good in all pain, right? So we offer up clichés to those in pain. We tell them that “everything happens for a reason” and “God won’t give you more than you can handle.” And then, being a culture of optimists, a people absolutely dedicated to the notion that through hard work and good decisions, you can fix anything, we expect people in pain to figure it out. When someone tells us they have chronic pain, we suggest diets and supplements and yoga and antidepressants and a good attitude.
But not all pain is gain. Pain is not always fixable. This is the truth. But it is not a hopeless truth.
Like Austin, I have osteogenesis imperfecta (OI)—a genetic collagen disorder that causes fragile bones and other connective tissue problems, such as scoliosis, muscle weakness, and skeletal deformities. Before my 11th birthday, I had about three dozen fractures, mostly of the legs, along with about a dozen surgeries to replace metal rods that helped stabilize and straighten my leg bones. Today, at 45, I haven’t had a fracture in more than 30 years (fracture rates typically go down after puberty, when the bones no longer contend with the stress of rapid growth).
For many of those 30 years, I lived in a healthy denial of my condition. It was still obvious to me and even to casual observers that my body was compromised. My spine is crooked and one leg is longer than the other, so I walk with an awkward swaying limp. I haven't ever been able to carry heavy loads, run, or walk long distances without pain. But from my teen years through my late 30s, I could go through most days without giving much thought to having OI. I could hike on the weekends with my husband, keep house and cook meals, walk to the drug store with a baby or two in a stroller—and rarely have to accommodate my bone disorder into my typical stay-at-home-mom routine.
That all changed when I was pregnant with my third baby, and tore some cartilage in my knee. I eventually had it surgically repaired, but in the seven years since, I have developed severe arthritis in both knees.
This pain is not gain. This pain means that I struggle to keep up with my family on outings, even with the support of a walking stick (I refuse to call it a “cane”!). This pain means that I hobble, hunched over, like someone twice my age when I take my first few steps out of bed in the morning. This pain doesn’t leave me alone even at night; changing position in bed can lead to shooting pain that wakes me up.
When it comes to remedies for arthritis pain, I have tried them all. I swim and do yoga. I have tried acupuncture, dietary changes and supplements, and homeopathic concoctions. I have had various types of injections. Most of these remedies have proved useless.
I have found two treatments that really help: Frequent, intense application of heat (via heating pads, very hot baths, and time spent outdoors in direct sunlight) and opioid medications. Neither remedy banishes my pain entirely, but together, they allow me to keep my house relatively clean and in order, prepare simple meals, and do things with my kids. (Knee replacements are a possibility long-term, but will be more complicated for me than for the usual arthritis patient. My orthopedist and I are agreed that, with three dependent kids still at home, I am not a good candidate for such drastic surgery right now.)
My pain is not gain. My pain is a cold, hard fact, the source of much frustration and even shame. I am, after all, dependent on medications that are the target of suspicion and fear, because of a prevalent pseudoscientific mindset that considers “natural” (unregulated and often untested) remedies as automatically safer and better than “unnatural” remedies produced and sold by Big Pharma, and because of a well-meaning but often misinformed media frenzy around prescription drug abuse. And my children, while of course they love me, don’t always understand my limitations. They roll their eyes when I say I’m heading upstairs to take yet another hot bath. “Mom!” they say. “I think you’re already clean enough!” They whine when I can’t do what they want me to do because I need to sit down and give my knees a break.
Our culture loves stories of people who triumph over pain and adversity. I do not triumph. I take lots of breaks. I complain. I wish I could do more than I can. I get angry when I’ve taken a pill and taken a hot bath and sat out in the sun and still one of my knees is screaming. I get angry because I know there is nothing else to do.
There is nothing else to do, that is, except the most important thing: Cope. I do not triumph, but I do cope. I cope pretty darn well. And I wonder if, in our culture that so loves stories of triumph and strives so mightily to fix whatever is wrong with us, glomming onto the latest technologies or natural remedies or self-help plans or diets or experts that populate the best-seller lists, we have forgotten the value of coping.
Coping is about continuing to put one foot in front of the other, admitting that some things are hard and frustrating and unfixable while giving thanks for other things that are good and inspiring and helpful. Coping is doing what we can while acknowledging all we can’t.
Theologian Stanley Hauerwas, in his book God, Medicine, and Suffering, quotes Nicholas Wolsterstorff, author of Lament for a Son—a memoir of losing his grown son in a mountain climbing accident and a meditation on parental grief. Wolsterstorff says, “I know now about helplessness—of what to do when there is nothing to do. I have learned coping. We live in a time and place where, over and over, when confronted with something unpleasant we pursue not coping but overcoming. Often we succeed. Most of humanity has not enjoyed and does not enjoy such luxury.”
Our culture doesn’t like helplessness. We are uncomfortable with pain and grief. So we pull out our clichés about everything happening for a reason and pain being gain. Mere weeks after the Boston marathon bombing, we pick up a People magazine with smiling amputees on the cover. We admire them for overcoming their trials with grit and determination, failing to acknowledge that they likely have days and weeks and years of hard coping ahead of them, of getting out of bed and going to work and caring for families under the weight of pain and grief and horrific memories.
Austin has OI as I do, and his dad Scott tells me that Austin lives with chronic pain as well. I have never met Austin. But if I could say one thing to him and to other kids living with challenges, such as OI or autism or other conditions affecting body and mind, I would say this:
You have had to deal with a lot of stuff in your young life, and you have borne that stuff with grace and strength. But I know—and I think you know too—that you are not a superhero. You are human. And stuff hurts. Sometimes it hurts a lot. When stuff hurts, whether it’s your body or your heart that is bruised, you don’t have to overcome the hurt. You don’t have to triumph over it. You don’t have to find a reason for it. You don’t have to learn a lesson from it (although once in a while, you will). You don’t always have to be brave and strong. You don’t have to inspire other people.
All you have to do is cope. Get up each and every day, decide what you really want and need to do, and then figure out how to do it. Figure out what eases the struggle a little bit, whether it’s finding meds or exercises or foods that really help, getting lost in a good book or a favorite video game, or spending time alone or time with other people. Admit when you’re hurt, exhausted, or frustrated, and ask for help—or just a listening ear. Push yourself to stretch beyond your limits, but only if you’re pushing in response to a deep yearning that’s inside yourself, not to impress others or fulfill their notion that you are some kind of symbol of how to overcome adversity. You are not a symbol. You are a person. And the people who really love and need you, they love and need you, the person you really are, with all of your gifts and limits and strengths and weaknesses.
It took me a long time to figure this out. I have spent far too much time comparing myself to other women my age, with their toned muscles and triathlon finishes and ability to come home from work to create a lovely homecooked meal and then go for a run and then take the dog for a walk, all without hurting. I have spent far too much time comparing myself to other mothers, who can ride bikes with their kids and keep up with them on strolls through town and carry them when they are exhausted. I am not happy about being a 45-year-old mom who has severe arthritis. But happy about it or not, that’s who I am. I am the best mom for my kids, the best wife for my husband, the best friend for my friends simply because I am theirs.
And I am coping. Not triumphing. Not overcoming. Just coping. Which is a lot, and really all any of us need to do.
Ellen Painter Dollar is a writer, blogger, and author of No Easy Choice: A Story of Disability, Parenthood, and Faith in an Age of Advanced Reproduction (Westminster John Knox 2012). Learn more about her and follow her writing at http://ellenpainterdollar.com. I thank Ellen for sharing with us. It is still hard for me sometimes to appreciate and understand how my wife and son hurt like they do. Not just once and a while, but every day. Thank you and God bless.
